


Truce

by thedevilchicken



Category: The Chronicles of Riddick Series
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 12:55:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9658307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: They gave him a head start, sure, but it sure wasn't much of one.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wednesday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wednesday/gifts).



They gave him a head start, sure, but it sure wasn't much of one.

Riddick was recuperating inside some shitheap of a merc station on some frozen-ass moon out in the back of beyond, mooching off of what was left of their dried-up MREs that went down just like mouthfuls of sand 'cause he was too damn beat up to even hunt a fucking space rabbit, or what-the-fuck-ever it was that was hopping around leaving cutesy tracks in the snow outside. Still, he guessed at least they weren't trying to eat him, or at least not yet. 

He was slumped there with one leg either side of a bolted-down metal bench, at the bolted-down metal table in the middle of the room that was still covered in all of the crap the last visitors had left behind 'cause it turned out - surprise, surprise - mercs sure were shitty house guests. He guessed the only thing he could say for them was at least they hadn't swiped the heaters, but as they'd've had to've hacked 'em out of the goddamn walls, maybe that wasn't so much of a compliment. 

He was trying and pretty much totally failing to properly re-dress his wounds when the door swung open in a gust of freezing air and then there was Dahl. She was right there in the open doorway all haloed in the overly bright damn midday light that glared in off of the snow outside, big as life and twice as pretty, as he was poking pointlessly at his bloody stitches. He quit poking. He smiled instead, real slow, real broad. 

"Well, ain't you a sight for sore eyes," Riddick said. Considering his goggles were sitting on the table and not currently on his face, sore eyes was actually just about right. 

"Well, you're certainly a...sight," Dahl replied, her gloved hands on her hips as she looked him up and down. She raised her brows and gestured at him exasperatedly. "Jesus Christ. Did you stitch yourself up with your eyes closed?"

Riddick shrugged, though partway through it kinda turned into a shiver, which he thought was kinda understandable given the way the shitty little station was hemorrhaging heat. "I didn't think to concentrate real hard on my technique at the time," he said. "You think you can do better?"

She kicked the door shut behind her and flicked on the lights as she dropped the kit bag from her shoulder and down to the floor, so he reached for his goggles as she strode across the room; when he pulled them on, his slick fingers smeared his own damn blood over his forehead. She rubbed it away kinda brusquely with the heels of her hands once she'd haphazardly tossed away her gloves, then she wiped her hands off on the thighs of his pants and he chuckled at her 'cause really, that was all he could do about it. And hell, it wasn't like his pants were fresh out of the laundry anyway. He was pretty sure they had more of his blood in them right then than he did. 

"I could do better with my eyes closed," Dahl told him, leaning close down by his ear, then she shoved her hair back behind her ears and sat down straddling the bench. She shed her snowy overcoat onto the concrete floor and then shifted in close to him, her warm fingers trailing down over his bare chest. She shifted in closer, slinging one leg over the top of one of his so their knees didn't collide, or at least maybe that was the reason she did it, maybe, perhaps. One hand drifted up to the back of his neck. She looked him in the eye and for a second, she smiled at him. Then she reached for the needle.

She did better. He watched her do it, putting in a row of stitches that were so damn neat he might've been post-op in some fancy-ass med bay and not cooling his heels in a merc station with a bounty hunter who'd probably have sold her own grandmother for a fast buck or two, or maybe that was uncharitable of him. He took a swig from a bottle of z-grade, no-name booze that burned the whole way down and when she was done she took it from him, tilted back her head and swallowed with her eyes on him the whole damn time. Her bloody fingers got blood on the bottle. When she raked back her hair from her face, she got blood in it, too. 

"So, where's your boss?" Riddick asked, as she took another swig. 

"He's three days behind. He went to pick up some guys and some supplies." 

"You mean he sent you here alone?"

"I told him I could handle you." 

"Is that right?"

She gave his neat new stitches a prod with the pad of her thumb; he hissed; she smiled. 

"That's right," she said, with a wink then a quick, sudden kiss at the corner of his mouth that made Riddick laugh out loud, down low. She did it again, slower, kinda boozy, with her nails at the back of his neck, and he caught her round the middle, feebly by his usual standards. But she put down the bottle with a clank and she pulled herself upright, out of his grasp. She was like that, not quite a tease and not quite not, and okay, so he wanted her, but either way he enjoyed the game. 

"I'm going to clean myself up," she said. "This heap has a shower, right?" And he nodded, amused, and gestured to the bathroom door. Jeez, she was a piece of work.

She pulled up one foot onto the bench and tugged open her laces, changed and did the other foot, then toed both off right there. She pulled off her socks and stuffed them inside. She shrugged off her not-quite-military blazer and dropped it on the table, pulled off her shirt as she walked away barefoot on the chilly-ass concrete, her bare back to him as she unbuckled her belt. The shower spluttered into life as he picked up the bloody bottle and took a swig and when she reappeared in the doorway seconds later, naked, Jesus Christ he almost dropped it, it was almost shards of glass swimming in a puddle on the floor. That wouldn't've been good for either of them; that was all the goddamn booze they had.

"Are you coming in or do I have to drag you?" she asked, her arms crossed under her bare breasts. "Let's face it, you need a shower at least ten times more than I do."

He laughed. He followed her. Stiffly, bruised and fucking battered and half wary of his brand new stitches, he dragged his ass up and he followed her. In the bathroom, with the door propped wide open so maybe anyone could've just walked in though it wasn't like the place was overcrowded, she stripped him naked and she pushed him in under the spray. He leaned real heavily against the wall and she scrubbed him down as hot water ran over his skin, a cloth in one hand and a bar of soap in the other. She scrubbed him hard from head to toe, careful of the wounds and the stitches but not so much bruises. She ran the cloth between his cheeks, rubbed at his asshole for a second and made him snicker. She stood right up against his back and ran the cloth between his thighs, rolling his balls in her cloth-covered hand. She ran it down the full length of his cock, eased back his foreskin and circled her bare thumb over the exposed head underneath. She sure wasn't shy. He liked that about her. 

Maybe it was meant to be sexual and maybe not but damn, either way, he was too damn tired and too hurt and too drunk for that shit to go anywhere but nowhere fast. He just slumped back against the wall and watched her wash herself, watched her clean the blood off of her hands and out of her blond hair, and afterwards she dried herself off and then dried him after on the same damn towel. She had clean dressings in the bag she'd dumped down by the station door and she stuck 'em all over him while they were both standing there by the table buck naked, her hair just damp enough that drops of water leaked off of it and ran down her back, down her neck, over her breasts, and when he rubbed it away with his thumbs, she just let him do it with a sharp look there on her face. He'd've liked to've done a whole lot more if he'd been up to it. He thought maybe she'd've let him do that, too.

She had clothes in the bag, too, some for herself then some for him that were probably Big Daddy Johns's but hell, right then he didn't even close to care 'cause at least they weren't stiff with dried-in blood. She helped him dress then she helped him to bed, or what passed for it, a half dusty cot on castors so rusted up they wouldn't move. Then she turned out the lights and she slipped in next to him, on her side, pressed to his back, one arm slung loose around his waist. 

"Don't get any smart ideas from this," she said, her mouth by the back of his neck, her breath on his skin. 

"Yeah, it's way too late for that," he replied, and she snickered by his ear. It tickled. 

Then save that shit for the morning," she said. "You need to get your beauty sleep." 

He closed his eyes. Her hand settled real low down on his belly, fingers rubbing idly at the trail of hair that ran to the base of his cock.

In the morning, they'd break out the shitty MREs for breakfast and share them between them, or maybe Dahl had brought something two steps closer to edible along with her in the ship she must've parked up outside. Hell, if not, maybe she'd brought along her rifle and she could shoot them some space rabbit and they'd see if it was poisonous or not - wouldn't've been the first time Riddick had took his life in his hands and shit, either way, he knew Dahl was sexy as hell with a gun in her hands. Besides, who knew, maybe it'd turn out space rabbit was a goddamn aphrodisiac, though he was pretty sure they wouldn't need one. 

In the morning, he'd be stronger. He'd always healed up pretty fast so maybe in the morning his cock would do more than hang there limp between his legs as a motherfucking noodle. Maybe he'd wake up hard with her hand around him. Maybe she'd strip him naked and straddle him, maybe she'd spread herself open and nudge his cock between her lips then sit back hard to shove him up inside her. Maybe she'd squeeze around the length of him, ride him hard and make him groan with back arched tight and her fingers all spread out across his chest. Maybe she'd lean down over the shitty metal table and he'd have her from behind, balls-deep in her with a snap of his hips the way he'd never really thought he would be. Maybe they'd fuck in the shower with her legs around his waist and her mouth at his throat or maybe she'd let him get his mouth between her thighs to tongue her clit and make her come as she clawed his shoulders and damn, _damn_ , he hoped she wouldn't be quiet. He didn't think she would be. She'd do exactly what she wanted, he thought, totally unapologetically.

And okay, so maybe her boss was on his way already to pick him up and sell him off to who the fuck knew where - neither of them struck him as the sentimental type so that was pretty sure what they intended. Maybe she'd tracked him down and come out there to keep him occupied - and keep herself amused - while Johns rallied reinforcements. It was a temporary truce at best but he had three days, if she was telling the truth, and shit, if nothing else she struck him as truthful. Three days with Dahl. Three days _alone_ with Dahl. She was right: she could handle him. She _was_ handling him. Turned out she knew just how.

Her fingers went down around his cock and shit, it twitched straight up into to life, so maybe they weren't gonna wait till morning after all. He smiled. He figured he could live with that.

For three days, they'd be the only two people on the planet. He was pretty sure he could live with that, too, whatever happened after that; the rest he'd work out later.


End file.
